


Bond, As a Noun

by nhpw



Category: Supernatural RPF
Genre: Fluff and Angst, Fluff and Smut, Light Bondage, M/M, Oral Sex, RPF
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-01-10
Updated: 2016-01-10
Packaged: 2018-05-13 00:22:56
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,254
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5687407
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/nhpw/pseuds/nhpw
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"But Misha is different, and special, and wonderfully weird. Somehow, he’s managed to cross the years unscathed, still the same eccentric goofball he’d been when he first showed up in Vancouver. He’s also… open, and over the years the two of them had developed sort of a “don’t ask, don’t tell” agreement, where they sometimes cuddle and sometimes kiss and sometimes fuck. And lately, it’s been more fucking, in a desperate, remind-me-I’m-cared-for, remember-I-love-you sort of way."</p>
            </blockquote>





	Bond, As a Noun

**Author's Note:**

  * For [ilookatstars (RipUpTheEnding)](https://archiveofourown.org/users/RipUpTheEnding/gifts), [whatabadchoice](https://archiveofourown.org/users/whatabadchoice/gifts).



> I believe this is my official application for permanent residence in the fandom trashcan. 
> 
> Um, so this story happened because one day on Twitter there was consensus that Misha is a top, and probably also kinky, and. Yeah. It snowballed fairly quickly.
> 
> The story makes reference to a Submissive's Checklist. In simplest terms, this is a list of kinky activities, and a person ranks each activity on a scale of 0 - 5 how much each thing appeals to them. "0" is a hard limit (something they will never, ever do, ever), "1" is a soft limit (something they would do only with a long-term, very trusted partner) and "5" is the equivalent of "YES PLEASE THIS ALL THE TIME FOREVER." There are different types of varying lengths; I'm not going to link a particular one but they're fairly easy to Google if you want an example for context.
> 
> *Ahem* ANYWAY. Un-beta'd, per usual. Mistakes are mine. Also please nobody sue me, please.

“You want me to do what now?”

“A submissive’s checklist.” Misha replies completely frank and unabashed around a mouthful of cashews, as though they’re talking about the weather. _Which we should be,_ Jensen figures, because they are in fucking public on the fucking set of their fucking TV show, shooting the shit around a snack table as they wait for a re-set so they can do another take of a fight scene “to get some close-ups.” At least the set is closed today and it’s just the two of them right now, thank Christ, or he might’ve punched Misha for bringing this up _here_ and _now_. Fucking Misha.

It’s nearing the end of Season 10 and emotions are running high - today, he and Misha are the only actors on the call sheet because the emotional strain of the scene they’re filming has caused three previous attempts to be scrapped already. Even Jared’s presence had been a distraction.

Finally, sensing the frustration radiating off of Jensen when they couldn’t get this right, Tom Wright had closed the set and cut the scene in half - Editing would smooth it out, but the director’s call was that Dean’s slaughter of the Stynes would be filmed separately from his face-off with Castiel, affording Jensen and Misha literally every inch of privacy they could possibly have asked for.

There are only three people on earth to whom Jensen will admit that this season has taken its toll. The storyline has forced him to embrace Dean’s darker side, which he’s never done, not even when Dean returned from Purgatory a little rougher around the edges. This is different; this is deeper, and it’s becoming difficult to leave his work at the office.

Misha. Jared. And his wife, of course, for every Facetime second they can spare.

But Misha is different, and special, and wonderfully weird. Somehow, he’s managed to cross the years unscathed, still the same eccentric goofball he’d been when he first showed up in Vancouver. He’s also… _open_ , and over the years the two of them had developed sort of a “don’t ask, don’t tell” agreement, where they sometimes cuddle and sometimes kiss and sometimes fuck. And lately, it’s been more fucking, in a desperate, remind-me-I’m-cared-for, remember-I-love-you sort of way.

“Come on,” Misha says now, pulling him out of his reverie. “They’re fun. Hey.” And his voice drops comically low, “I’ll show you mine if you show me yours.” He gives Jensen a pointed look, leaning on one hip and looking back over his shoulder, eyebrows bouncing suggestively. The playful expression fades when he takes in Jensen’s face, which probably has a deer-in-the-headlights look about it, and Misha turns around and swaggers back toward his friend. “OK, look.” He sobers and puts his hand casually on Jensen’s shoulder and fuck, that touch feels _so good_ , even through the layers of his wardrobe. Misha leans up on his toes so he can whisper his next words right into Jensen’s ear. “Last night you asked me to bind you. I didn’t say no because I don’t want to because, Jen, _I want to_. I said no because that’s not small potatoes. That’s me taking the gloves off.”

Jensen shivers and pulls away just enough so he can look Misha in the eyes, left eyebrow arched in question. “You’ve been wearing gloves?” it comes out more squeakily than he’d intended.

Misha’s response is a Castiel-like growl. “You have no idea.”

“Two minutes to mark!”

The director’s call shakes them both out of their spell, reminding them of the time and place in which they actually stand.

“I’ll leave it in your trailer. Do it,” Misha instructs with a pointed look and a less-than-innocent slap to Jensen’s ass. “Over lunch. We’ll talk tonight.”

Then he turns and grabs a last handful of cashews before he swaggers away, whistling, Castiel’s signature trenchcoat swinging side to side with every step.

***

The checklist is five pages long.

He could’ve done a lot of things. He could’ve skimmed through it, making best guesses and half-assed attempts. He could have refused to do it at all. He could’ve skipped things he’s pretty sure Misha doesn’t give a crap about.

But he doesn’t do any of that. Instead he fills it out, with considerations and sometimes notes in the margin. Partly for himself, partly for Misha, and partly because he’s never been one to turn down a challenge or phone it in. And then he shoves it in a manilla envelope, writes _You’re a sick motherfucker_ across the envelope with a Sharpie, and seals it tight before sticking it in his messenger bag.

In the intensity of the afternoon’s filming, he forgets about it, until he’s done for the day, back out of wardrobe and makeup and loading up to head for his apartment. That’s when it comes rushing back because he finds Misha leaning against the trunk of his car.

“Did you do it?”

“You look like a smug asshole, you know. Get off.”

Misha snorts in amusement but says nothing, and moves out of the way so that Jensen can pop the trunk and throw his messenger bag inside. He slams the lid down and turns pointedly toward Misha, who’s grinning, wide and sparkling like a kid in the candy store who’s just been told he can get anything he wants. “Did you?”

“I did it.”

“All of it?”

“Yes, all of it.” During this exchange, Jensen is walking from the trunk to the front of his car, not looking at Misha, because if he does he’s going to lose his shit. He’s still wound up like a spring, under pressure and sensitive to touch and sound. One wrong move, one wrong word, and he’ll explode and probably throw Misha up against his vehicle and fuck him, right here, out in the open. And that would be bad, bad, bad, so he’s trying to keep his head level, to shake off Dean Winchester and settle back into Jensen Ackles, who doesn’t fight monsters and doesn’t hurt his friends and doesn’t carry weapons in his trunk. He opens the door and leans heavily against the car’s frame, not getting inside; instead, he takes a deep breath and lets it out slowly through his mouth. Eyes closed, cheeks puffed out. “I’m sorry, man. I need…”

“I know.” Misha’s reply is level, quiet, and closer than it ought to be, until Jensen realizes his friend is standing right behind him. “My place?”

“Mmmm.” He lets the feeling of Misha’s breath on his neck wash over him, and his next breath in is partly Misha’s exhale, so it feels calmer.

“Are you OK to drive?”

“Just barely, but yeah.”

“See you in 30, then.”

Jensen drives through Vancouver with the radio cranked, drumming against the steering wheel to the beat, singing along at the top of his lungs and he still has trouble hearing his own voice over the zing of classic rock. He lets Skynyrd finish out the final bars of Freebird before turning off the car, knowing but not caring that he’ll regret not turning down the stereo when he gets up for work in the morning. Or goes home later… but who is he kidding. No. It’ll be morning.

Misha’s Vancouver apartment is a loft in a rehabbed old office building - small, but quirky in the same way Misha’s quirky, like how his intercom is from 1922 but still works so Misha “fell in love” or something and refuses to upgrade, and an ironing board that folds out of the wall like a Murphy bed, so old and floppy that it sometimes does so of its own accord. Jensen could never live here, but it suits Misha Collins to a T.

He lets himself in through the alley and trucks up the stairs, bag in hand, and when he gets to Misha’s place the door is ajar in anticipation of his arrival, so he enters unannounced to find Misha stretched out on his off-white sectional in gray sweatpants and a burgundy t-shirt. He smiles contentedly, and Jensen smiles back, setting his bag down on the pass-through window between kitchen and living space and digging the envelope out. He Frisbee-tosses it to Misha, note-side up.

Misha gives a chuckle at that. “I’m a sick motherfucker, huh?”

“Dude, if you tell me you want to piss on me, I’m outta here right now.”

“Relax.” As Jensen grabs a beer from the fridge and makes himself at home on the couch, Misha opens the envelope and gives its contents a quick once-over. Misha sits up and coaxes Jensen to lay down instead, his head on Misha’s thighs, and the pages of the checklist still above his face, in Misha’s right hand as the left gently strokes Jensen’s scalp. “Degradation isn’t my thing at all,” he murmurs in reassurance, and then he’s quiet, reading through the checklist at a slower pace. All the while he continues the gentle play of his fingers through Jensen’s hair, along his scalp, down to his neck, around his ears. In the silence, broken only by the occasional turn of a page, Jensen nearly falls asleep. He loses himself in the presence and feel and calmness of _Misha_ , because this is why they do this, this is why they both feel better when the other is there. Misha’s thighs feel solid under Jensen’s head, but the softness of his pants offsets that, and as Misha flips the page a second time, Jensen starts to stroke light fingers over the fabric. He hears a hiss above him and smirks without opening his eyes. “This is going to change things, you know. If I do some of these things to you. There’s… an extraordinary amount of trust… in rope, for example. And in bondage. The word… bondage… its root is _bond_ … as a noun… something that holds together. A force or influence that unites; a strong and enduring quality of affection. _Bond_.”

“Why’d you ask me to do that?”

“The checklist?”

“It’s been three years, Mish. Why now?”

“Because you asked for something beyond physical affection. Something beyond comfort. You asked me to center you. To ground you to yourself with kink and sexual acts and I can do that,” Misha’s tone rises a notch has Jensen startling up into a sitting position so that he can look his friend in the eye, “But to do it right, I need to know what you want, _exactly_ what you want, and what you don’t.” The serious expression is there for a fifth of a second, and then it’s gone. “Plus, like I said, it’s just fun.” He shrugs and sets the papers aside, leaning into Jensen’s personal space and pulling him in for a kiss. “You gave blindfolding a 5,” he breathes between their faces. “Why?”

“Sometimes I like to just feel you,” comes the immediate and honest reply.

Misha gives a quiet “hmm” in reply before stealing another kiss. “Have you ever done it before?”

“Never on the receiving end.”

“You’re nervous.”

“A little.”

“But calmer. So much calmer.” He draws in an audible breath and lets it out as another satisfied “hmmm” with a smile.

“Gives me the creeps when you stare at me like that, Mish.” He doesn't quite manage to get it out as a joke. Instead it’s quiet and rough, full of desire and a tinge of fear.

Misha laughs just the same, though, and pulls Jensen in for another kiss. “Let's get naked.” He says it like Misha does when they're horsing around with the rest of the cast - _nekkid -_ and he’s smiling ear to ear as he stands and pulls Jensen to his feet. “C’mon. Let's play.”

“Woah, woah, hold on. Stop. All that serious talk about _change_ and _bonding_ and five seconds later you’re like a kid in a candy store? What even is that?”

Misha pauses for momentary consideration before bouncing his shoulders in a shrug. “Pretty much, yeah.”

Jensen rolls his eyes wide enough to see the back of his skull but allows himself to be pulled to the bed as he huffs out, “God, you’re weird.”

“Secret’s out, I guess,” Misha pouts with play-resignation and an over-exaggerated shrug as he straddles Jensen’s chest and removes his own t-shirt, followed by Jensen’s. “Don’t tell anybody.”

“I think they already know.”

There might’ve been more words behind that, but Misha’s mouth is on his then, open and searching for something in the back of his mouth that seems impossible to find, because Misha doesn’t come up for air for an impossibly long time. It’s those longer-than-life kisses that bring Jensen to the Well of Misha for drink after drink after drink, because they’re soft and warm and safe and everything he needs. He needs those kisses almost more than he needs the sex that he knows is coming.

After forever, Misha’s mouth starts to trail south, leaving tiny, barely-there kisses in its wake. He covers every millimeter of the right side of Jensen’s jaw, back to his ear, straight down his throat to the collarbone until he has what he wants - Jensen’s a mewling mess, pure putty beneath him, and he’s barely done a thing. Then he speaks - clearly, but quietly, as his right index finger replaces his lips and starts to draw patterns in the hollow between Jensen’s neck and collarbone. “You asked for restraints. That’s what got us here. Is that still what you need?”

“Fuck yes.” His voice is so shaky it’s barely recognizable to his own ears.

Misha nods and moves off the bed temporarily, only to return with a pair of blood-red silk scarves. “Soft restraints. I don’t do anything harder until I’ve seen what these can do.” Now Misha’s voice has that serious, teacher-like tone about it; Jensen’s trying to focus because he knows this is important but, fuck, Misha’s straddling him again, pulling one wrist at a time up to the bedpost, circling it with a scarf and tying a masterful knot to hold it in place. Left first, then right, and when they’re both secured Jensen gives them a tug. They hold solid, even against his strength - clearly, Misha’s done this enough to know what he’s doing. “OK?”

“Yeah. Yes.” He swallows hard as Misha disappears again, a bit longer this time, only to return with a third scarf, which he pulls tight in front of Jensen’s face before giving a pointed look.

“Close your eyes.” He waits for compliance before Jensen feels the fabric fall across his face, then a tightness around the back of his head as it’s secured. “Good. If you open them, you won’t be able to see; if you try to close them again, you risk getting the fabric caught under your eyelids. Let me know if that happens and I’ll adjust the blindfold. Let yourself go - just feel. Feel the softness of the sheets beneath you; feel the fabric around your wrists; feel the weight of the blindfold on your eyes. And feel me. Do you feel me, Jensen?”

“Fuck, Mish.”

“I’m your anchor, understand? Let your mind and body go, but if you go so far you need something to pull back to, pull back to me and I’ll be here. Now. You can’t move, and you can’t see, so I need your consent, and I need your trust. I’d like to touch you intimately. Can I do that?”

Jensen tugs hard at his restraints, arches up, whimpers at the weight of Misha’s body at his midsection. “Please.” He doesn’t mean it to sound so whiny, but there it is anyway.

The next thing Jensen feels is the warm wetness of Misha’s mouth around the head of his cock, and then Misha’s hands moving south, cupping and fondling and groping at his balls, massaging them with a masterful hand that Jensen’s felt before but fuck, it’s never been anything like this. There are fireworks exploding behind his eyelids and Jensen’s coming undone faster than he wants to. But Misha said to let go, and that’s exactly what he’s doing, because he’s making sounds now that he’s not sure he’s ever made before - ever, with anyone. They’re barely human, he thinks, but Misha seems undeterred - in fact he seems encouraged, if anything, and doubles down on his efforts, swallowing Jensen to the back of his throat.

“Fuck… Misha… I can’t…”

At that, Misha pulls back suddenly, licking a stripe up Jensen’s cock from base to tip and sucking hard on the head, then following the same path with a single finger, and Jensen’s done, he can’t, he’s going to explode and he starts reeling off a litany of every single curse word he’s ever learned because he needs to vocalize _something_ but for the life of him he doesn’t remember how to be coherent. The only thing that keeps coming out clearly is _Misha_ , and the next thing he knows, Misha’s body is pressed flush against his, mouth claiming his, body covering his, hardness against hardness in the middle and toned pecs and biceps reaching up to exactly mimic his pose, flipped 180, until they’re like a man laying on top of his own reflection on a mirror. Misha grinds his hips and breathes on the sweat on Jensen’s throat and fucking growls and Jensen can’t hold on. With a shout, he’s cumming between their bodies, and when he’s spent - that’s when he realizes he’s fucking _sobbing_ , and fuck, Misha’s still hard as a rock, but he can’t take anymore right now.

“Sorry, Mish. So sorry.” The blindfold comes off midway through the apology, and he sees the bright blue of those eyes looking down at him, wide and wonderfully calm as always, but alight with a life Jensen’s not sure he’s ever seen before. It doesn’t seem possible, but for all the years he’s known Misha, for all the things they’ve done, this is expression is brand new.

“For what?” Misha’s working his wrists free, but it takes only a few seconds and then Jensen’s arms fall naturally around Misha’s body, and Misha rolls them so they’re face-to-face on their sides.

“For being such a mess.”

“Ah. No, that’s… a compliment,” Misha responds, giving him a single, pointed kiss on the lips. “If you don’t come undone, then I’m doing something wrong.”

Jensen can’t settle on a proper reply to that, so he just lets himself be pulled close and held, and they’re quiet for a lost amount of time before Misha says, “How do you feel now?”

“Better.”

“You did so well.”

In spite of himself, Jensen feels a blush creep into his cheeks. “Thanks, I guess?”

“If you need something harder, we can do that next time. But I’d want to negotiate beforehand. It gets pretty intense beyond this.”

“Harder?”

“Hard restraints - cuffs, sleeves, et cetera. Power exchange protocols. There are limits to what I’ll do, but I can make you feel safe, you have my word.”

“Thank you.” It’s barely a whisper before Jensen presses a kiss to Misha’s lips, and then he snuggles a bit closer, barely aware as Misha pulls a comforter up around them both. He feels the weight of the blanket, and then Misha, curled up around his back, and yes, he knows Misha can. _Maybe someday I can return the favor_.

It’s possible he’s already dreaming, but as sleep claims him, Jensen’s sure he feels a tiny kiss and a hot breath against the back of his neck, and then the softest of whispers, “You already have.”


End file.
